


I'm Willing to Dye for Love

by incenseandteacups



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-06
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-03-29 06:47:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3886378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incenseandteacups/pseuds/incenseandteacups
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marco is pleasantly surprised to find a cute boy at his door, asking if he can dye his hair. College!AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I just realized, every other story I've posted on here has been supernatural in some way...well, here comes the obligatory College!AU! Thought of this last night when we did my hair purple and had to bleach my roots (similarly to Jean, I dye my hair often but suck at actually doing it myself.) Had fun writing this, thinking I'll make it two parts.

I don't quite hear the knock on my dorm door at first, rising from sleep with a tired groan. I don't bother to put on pants - I'm wearing a T-shirt and boxers, surely that's enough to answer the door - and stare with unfocused eyes into the face of the intruder. 

He's pretty good to look at - angular features, soft-looking skin, and his hair is interesting, topped with blond and fading to a dark undercut. The roots on the top of his head are starting to show brown, and I get the feeling that's not part of the look. He's blushing, and I fight off an amused smile; I'm always too soft on cute people like this. 

"Yes?" 

He starts to work around an answer, and I notice that he's clutching a box of hair bleach in one hand - the kind you'd get at Walmart, which makes me wince. I'm studying to be a hairdresser, so I suppose I might be a little biased. My attention snaps back to him when he finally gets out a word. 

"Um...so, you're the one who does hair, right?" He won't look at me, and I think I'm starting to get the picture. Oh, this is hilarious. He's adorable.

"I do, although it's not professional yet. Why?" I probably shouldn't string him along like this, since I'm fairly sure I know what he'd like me to do, but I want to see him stammer some more. He's starting to look like a tomato. 

"I...could you help me...do my roots?" He jumps when I reach out to finger a lock of the blond hair, surprised at how soft it is. It's clear he's bleached it a few times, but it's held up pretty well. Lucky. My hair takes to bleach about as well as straw takes to fire. Right now it's a dark purple, but I've been alternating between purple and blue so I don't have to bleach more than my roots - my hair will start falling out, otherwise. 

"Sure." I'm still dead tired - they've had us practicing for half the pay at little hair salons, and the hours are terrible. This is my first day off in weeks. But this little blondie is...well, he's exactly my type, and I'm not one to waste a good opportunity. "Why can't you do it yourself, though?" I step aside, gesturing for him to come inside. He looks surprised, although he steps past me. I notice his gaze flicker to my bare legs, and it almost makes me want to laugh - maybe I'm his type, too. 

"I didn't think you'd do it right now..." He mutters, and then, after a short hesitation, forces out his answer to my question. "My...my mom did it before now." 

Oh. My gosh. That sort of helplessness shouldn't be attractive, but right now, it seems so impossibly endearing I can't help but smile. "I see. Well, it is easier when someone else does it - you can leave spots, otherwise. Go ahead and sit down." I pat a chair with a stained back, one that I've used for quite a while; apparently I'm very good at dyeing hair, and I'm grateful for the practice when people request my help. I want to do this professionally, after all. I wonder if this is his first time that someone other than his mother has done his hair. 

"Are you alright with getting this shirt dirty?" I ask, and he pauses. I figured. With a soft laugh, I shake my head. "It's fine, I'll grab you one." I set down the box of dye, heading to my dresser - it's not the biggest room, so it's only a few paces away. I've got a little table next to the cabinet, where Blondie is sitting, and a futon pressed against the far wall that I was collapsed on when he knocked. The dresser is opposite the cabinet, and when I turn back with a faded gray shirt in my hands, I see his eyes flick up and to the side. Ooh, Blondie was totally staring at my butt. And from the red on his cheeks, he's embarrassed about it. Cute, if a little crude. 

"Here." I hand him the shirt. "So, what's your name, Blondie? I'm Marco, although you probably knew that." He did seek me out, after all. 

He frowns. "Blondie?" I hear him mutter, and then he responds. "Jean. Like the French kind, not John." After a slight moment of hesitation, he pulls off his shirt, and I decide to glance aside and give him a hint of privacy. He tosses his black T-shirt - some band I don't know - to the side. 

"Jean...it's a pretty name." I reply, sliding on the plastic gloves that came in the box and starting to mix the bleach. Shaking the bottle in one hand, I slide my fingers over the nape of his neck and the short hair of his undercut. He jumps, just enough that I can tell he did, and goosebumps rise on his skin. "Are you French?" 

He nods, and when I squeeze a little bleach onto his scalp, shudders. "Cold. Yeah, I lived in France until I was ten." I notice him clasping his hands in his lap. 

"Really? You don't have much of an accent." Although, it's easier to detect, now that I know he's French. 

"I already knew English when we came here. It was easy to lose the accent." He answers. I hope I didn't say something dumb...he doesn't seem very irritated, but he's probably been bugged about accents before...I decide to change the subject. 

"This is a really interesting hairstyle you have, bleached on top. Have you ever considered coloring it?" He snorts a laugh, and I feel accomplished. 

"Maybe. I guess I could, now that I'm in college..." He seems interested, and I'm happy to pursue it. 

"Personally, I think you'd look excellent with pink. Although..." I lean around to look at him, noticing all of his awkward return when my face grows closer to his. "With those eyes and that skin tone, you can probably pull off any color you want to. Pink, blue, purple, red, even orange if you felt like it. I've just been wanting to do someone pink." 

He hesitates. "I...I could do pink. You'd do it for me?" I grin, the bottle of bleach making an unfortunate noise as I get the last bit of dye out of it. I rub over his roots, checking for any extra bits of brown I might have missed. 

"I'd be happy to." I tug off the gloves, adding a, "Don't move." Opening a cabinet above him, I reach up, pulling a cheap plastic hair net out of a bag. These work fairly well, for one-time dyes. Carefully, I maneuver it over his hair - it always tends to flop down, even the short cuts - and let the elastic rest on his forehead. "There you go! You'll want to leave that in maybe thirty minutes, forty-five if the color is stubborn. Just rinse it out and shampoo it." He stands up, and I wonder if I should ask him out before he leaves. 

I'm torn as he picks up his shirt, but I make a decision just before he leaves the room. "If you'd like, you can come back tomorrow night and I'll finish up with the pink. I'm...I get off at eight." Is that too late? I don't know his schedule. 

He blinks at me for a moment, and I'm relieved to see a smile spread over his face. "It's a date."


	2. Pink Lips

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marco dyes the cute boy's hair pink, and their relationship progresses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had fun writing this! The new chapter of Wendigo should be out some time tomorrow.

I stare in the mirror, pulling at my cheeks to hide the bags under my eyes. My violet hair is clipped back from my face, freckles standing out in contrast with my unusually pale skin - normally it's a dark tan, and I imagine I must be more tired than I let myself realize. I haven't had more than four hours sleep in a month, waking up early to alternate between shifts at the hair salon and college classes, staying up late to study and keep up to date with different styles I'll need to know how to do. 

It's fifteen minutes past eight, and part of me wonders if Blondie is going to show up. I brought back a bottle of pink hair dye, that should turn out a pearly, almost cotton-candy colored shade of pink. I think it'll compliment the pale olive tone of his skin - I contemplated something a little darker, but this is soft and elegant. Fitting for him. I roll the bottle of dye in my fingers, laughing softly at the idea of him with pink plastered around his scalp. 

Twenty minutes pass, and then forty. When nine hits, I wonder if he decided not to come. Maybe I just imagined him being into me - I mean, it isn't like I offer very much. A hairstylist with bedhead and circles under his eyes, not the best first impression. 

I've just changed into sweatpants and a white tank top stained with various colors, and there's a hurried knock at the door. Hope jumps in my chest, a broad smile spreading over my face when I see his frantic honey eyes. He's holding a large silver box that reminds me of the cookie tins you see at Christmas. 

"Jean! I'm happy to see you, I thought you wouldn't be able to make it." I can't hide the relief in my tone, reaching up to slide my fingers through the blond hair that he manages to keep unnaturally soft. "Your hair turned out well." 

He flushes, thrusting the box forward for me to take. Something rustles inside. "Sorry I was late, I was making...uh, I made granola bars. I thought...well, you looked sort of tired, and I know you're busy, so I thought you could eat these on breaks...or...something." He finishes halfheartedly, and I can see how nervous he is. If I'm reading his character right, he probably wasn't even sure whether he should give them to me. 

I'm so delighted I almost can't stand it. "Thank you, these are perfect!" I take the box, stepping back and walking inside. He follows, albeit timidly, and I hear the door click shut. "It's sweet. Really, thank you." I finish, setting the tin in the cabinet and turning to give him my warmest smile. Sure enough, he's perking up, rubbing the back of his head self-consciously. "You cook?"

He nods. "Yeah, I...I like baking and stuff. I want to open a bakery when I get out of college, actually. Granola bars...aren't exactly the same thing, but they're fun." I'm in love.

I notice something in his other hand - my shirt? Before I can ask, he comes over to sit in the chair from last night, and hands the neatly folded clothing to me. Maybe he isn't completely helpless. 

"I wore an old shirt today, so here's yours back." He smiles at me, and I swear my heart skips a beat. I set it on the table, picking up instead the bottle of pink dye. I can't suppress a little grin at the apprehension in his eyes. 

"You don't have to do this, you know. You can stick with the blond." I'm already slipping on some gloves I'd prepared, shaking the dye up. He shakes his head. 

"No. Otherwise you'll keep calling me Blondie." I laugh, running the first drops of dye through blond tresses. 

"And Pinkie is better?" He freezes. Too late now, cutie. 

Hm. 

"What about cutie? That'll be true no matter what your hair color is." His ears turn red, and my own cheeks feel a little warm. I'm glad he can't see me, getting embarrassed at myself. 

I can already tell this pink is going to suit him, pleased with my choice of color. When I'm finished, I slap another hair net on him and toss the used gloves and bottle in the trash. "This one's overnight, assuming you want it to last. You'll have some pink spots on your forehead, but you can wash them off with some baking soda." 

He pads over to my wall mirror, next to the cabinet, and I wonder when he took his shoes off. I didn't notice. He reaches up to touch the plastic hair net, fingers long and graceful. With a laugh and a smile, he turns to me. "I'm gonna look like you." 

I raise an eyebrow. "Is that a good thing?" Instead of replying, he walks towards me, our chests not a foot away from each other. I flush a little, starting to move back, but pause when he reaches up to run his fingers through my hair. The contact is...nice, reminding me of how tired I am, and my eyes go half-lidded. 

"Yes." He leans up - I'm taller than him, but not by much - and presses soft lips to my own chapped ones. He's warm. The kiss is nice, gentle and timid, and he deepens it the slightest bit when I begin to kiss back, like he was worried I wouldn't like it. I decide to reassure him, placing a hand on the small of his back and pulling him closer, the other going to the side of his neck and jaw. 

We remain like that when we pull apart, and his lips are just a tad bit swollen. It makes me want to kiss them again, but I restrain myself. 

"You said this was overnight, right?" He asks, and a warm flame licks my insides. "Maybe I could just...lay with you. Unless that's weird, I mean, it probably is. Sorry, I shouldn't hav-" 

I interrupt him before he gets himself down, murmuring, "That sounds wonderful." I don't have classes tomorrow, and the hair salon doesn't open till noon on Saturdays, so this is the perfect time for him to stay over. I doubt we're going to do much more than sleep, but the idea of sleeping with him is better than it should be. 

His smile is relieved. With a laugh, I kiss him once more, a little more firmly this time, before scooping him up and carrying him in a sort of sitting-up bridal style to my lumpy old futon, grateful that it's still folded down into a bed from this morning. He yelps and scrabbles at my chest, going red again, and when I flop onto the mattress with him on my chest, he splutters, "I-I'll get dye on your mattress!" 

I shrug, pressing another soft kiss to his jaw. He shivers and goes quiet, and I think how wonderful it is that I can do this now. With a pleased little sigh, I wrap my arms around his waist, pulling him closer so that my face is pressed into his chest. He shifts a little, and I hear his heart thumping speedily - cute - before he begins to fiddle with my hair again, running cool fingers over my forehead and down through the slightly tangled strands. He gently removes the clip holding it back, before returning to the rhythm he had going. I feel like melting, and it's barely a few seconds before I'm passed out, breathing in the scent of honey.


	3. Pink...Whoops

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean wakes up, some fluff, and a horrible, horrible mistake on Marco's part. I would die in your position, Marco, and that's why I write this situation for you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little short - I'm probably writing a continuation very soon, but I couldn't resist ending the chapter here.

I'm woken by the call of my name in a voice that holds a pleasant accent, soft, tentative kisses on my brow, and wrinkle my forehead with a sleepy chuckle. 

"Marco. Marco, hon, wake up." 

I turn my head up to look at a lovely Jean with little lines under his eyes and swollen lips from sleeping. "Hon?"

He flushes. "It's a pet name. My mom uses it." I grin, pressing my forehead closer to his chest. I'm ready to fall asleep again, but I figure he woke me for a reason and stay awake. 

"You're Frenchier when you're sleepy. It's cute." I murmur. "Mm...what time is it?" His hand running through the hair at the nape of my neck - a habit of his, it seems, and I'm certainly not complaining - almost knocks me out again. 

"Shush." Is his first reply, tinted with embarrassment, and I want to laugh again. This is so nice. He's so cute. Life is good. "It's half past nine. I have to be at class in forty minutes. Can I use your shower?" Damn it. 

I groan, wrap my arms around his chest and give him one big squeeze - I hear a little huff of air escape him, so my soft college years must not have diminished the strength of my bear hugs. Relinquishing my hold, I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling with distaste. I just had the best sleep of my life. Unfortunately, it's over, and I could cry at the thought. "Yeah. Shampoo twice, okay?"

He's risen to his knees on my futon, and I'm surprised when he bends down, presses a gentle kiss to my forehead, and smiles. "Thank you, Marco. I had a wonderful time." As he gets up and walks away, I imagine the heat on my face could roast a marshmallow. 

I'm half-dozing while he uses the shower, and when he walks out, I manage to sit up. His hair looks pretty nice, although it's a bit too wet to tell, still. Something's strange. He looks flustered, pale cheeks bright red, and I wonder if he's realizing he spent the night being very gay. It didn't seem like that was an issue, though...

"B-Bye! I'll, uh...h-here, I'll leave my cell number." He stammers, setting a scrap of paper he must have prepared in the bathroom onto the dresser. I stand up, stretching and watching him with a raised eyebrow. He's gone before I can ask what's wrong, bemused by his odd behavior, but I glance at the number and shrug with a smile. It'll be fine. 

I head into the bathroom now, supposing I should get ready for work. I need to be at the salon by eleven, and it's ten. I've started the shower and examined my improved complexion in the mirror before I realize with blood-draining horror what had set him so off. 

In the shower, suctioned against the wall, is an enormous, neon pink dildo. 

"Fuck."


	4. Pink Cheeks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean likes horror movies, unfortunately for Marco.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on a true experience with my best friend - we were supposed to see Mad Max, damn it.

I spend my half-day working like a zombie. It's a miracle I didn't chop anyone's ear off, or worse, ruin their haircut. The image of my shower, and knowing that Jean witnessed it as well, haunts me. 

I almost don't have the guts to call him, walking back towards my dorm. The paper with his number is worn, from being nervously folded over and smoothed out as I stared at it. I finger it uncertainly now, before sighing and steeling myself. He's too cute to just forget, and besides...if he'd been bothered, he wouldn't have left the number in the first place. 

The first ring is okay, the second one torture. After the third, a voice picks up, sounding almost...hopeful, and I realize that all he saw calling was a number. 

"Hello?" My breath freezes. Butterflies swarm in my stomach, and I wonder why I feel so much like a teenager right now. Even in light of the...incident, I'm so excited I can hardly stand it. 

"Jean? This is...um, this is Marco." My voice cracked in the middle of that sentence, but it isn't like it can get any worse from here. 

"Marco! I was..ah, I was worried you wouldn't call." His words are less accented now that he's more awake, and I'm intrigued at the difference. He sounds about the same in terms of barely-concealed delight, and I want to laugh. 

"Oh, no, I just wasn't sure when you got out of class, and then I had work, you know...um...I'm, really sorry about this morning, that was...uh, that was bad." Great, Marco. Handled with the delicacy of a falling tree. 

Surprisingly enough, he starts laughing on the other end. "It's okay. I have to ask, though...why was it pink?" There's mischief in his voice, and I wonder how someone so shy in real life can be so brave on the phone. 

My burning face doesn't care either way. "I...uh...I like...pink." This - honest! - answer sends him into another fit of giggles, which is really quite rude on the phone. The butterflies in my stomach invade my chest, and I feel like I can't breathe. He's adorable. 

Suddenly he's serious again. "Hey, I was planning on going to see a movie tonight. Would...you wanna go with me?" The prospect of sitting in a dark theater with this cute asshole it fantastic. 

"Sure! What movie?"

His answer is too casual. "The third Insidious movie, you know, the new one? It looks a little cheesy, but I wanna see it out of respect for the original." My stomach drops. Suddenly the light evening I had imagined has become an ordeal. "Marco?"

"Oh, uh...yeah, yeah, I'll be there. What time?" Why. Why does the cute asshole have to want to go see a horror movie. Why is the cute asshole so relaxed about seeing a horror movie? 

I can hear his smile on the other side. "I'll stop by your room and pick you up at seven, how about that? The theater's in walking distance of the dorms." 

Given the ten minutes more it'll take me to reach my room, that's about forty minutes to get ready. Not bad. "Sure. See you then?"

"See you then." 

Alright. I hang up, steeling myself. For now, I'll be distracted with finding a good outfit. 

**

I chose a regular black T-shirt, just a little tight on the arms, and the dark red jeans that make my butt curve just right. Casual, but flattering. Perfect. 

I haven't been on a date in too long. I spend the last fifteen of my forty minutes staring into the bathroom mirror, combing through purple hair in an attempt to get it to lay right. It's too fluffy. 

A knock on my door tears me reluctantly away from the mirror. I slip my phone into my pocket, letting my face roll into a relaxed smile as I open the door. 

Wow. His head looks like cotton candy - in a good way, of course. Pearly and soft. I reach out, running my hand through his hair. "It turned out nice." He flicks my hand away, but he's smiling. 

"C'mon, the movie's in half an hour." 

Right. The movie. If I want to get with cutie, I'll have to watch the damn movie. It's not like it's the worst thing in the world, it's fake, I can handle it. 

**

I'm wrong. I'm so fucking wrong. I've pressed myself into the wall seat for comfort, clutching the popcorn in my lap like a lifeline. The previews are even frightening, some creepy movie that shouldn't be creepy. When I glance at Jean, his mouth is covered, like he's trying not to laugh. "What is it?" I whisper at him, leg bouncing anxiously up and down. 

"If you didn't want to see this movie, we could have gone to something else." He whispers back, and there's an amusement in his eyes that makes me feel like melting. 

I shake my head firmly, stilling myself in my seat. "No, I'm fine! I...uh, I like horror movies." I wonder how obvious that lie is. I haven't even seen the first Insidious. 

"Sure." Is his only reply, and he goes back to watching the previews with damnable ease. 

When the movie title comes up, ominous music blaring - while the wall spot seemed safer, it was also directly next to the speakers - I feel nauseous. I spend the next hour and forty minutes with my hands at my ears, ready to cover them and close my eyes at the first sign of something frightening. 

When we leave the theater, me with wide eyes and Jean with an irritating smirk on his face, he's the first to speak. 

"That was fucking hilarious." I turn to look at him with incredulity. How in any way was that funny? "I don't think you put your hands down the entire time." 

My face burns. "Shut up." 

The walk home is a montage of teasing - he somehow remembers every time I jumped, even if it wasn't a scary part, and seems to be particularly fond of the moment when I clutched his shoulder and chanted "No" repeatedly, a screaming demon onscreen. He was so shy a few days ago. Why. Why did this happen. 

We reach my dorm door - he insisted on walking me all the way there - and a grip on my shirt surprises me, warm lips on my own even more. It's a short kiss, and he pulls back, a lovely glow on his cheeks. "Thank you for watching it with me. Can I call you tomorrow?" 

I'm almost too busy drinking in his beautiful face to respond. "Um, I...yeah." 

A smile spreads across his face. "Great. Bye, Marco." I'm able to stumble out a goodbye in return, and I swear, as I head back into my room, I've never smiled so much.


End file.
